The Accidental Life Swap - Jennifer Joyce

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surrounding us. To the left of us, the greenery curves up high, the hilltop reaching for the blue, clear sky, while to the right there is a sharp drop where we can see down into the valley, as one field merges into the next, with only the odd ramshackle outbuilding breaking up the greenery. There are no other cars on the road, no people or animals that I can see from my vantage point. Nobody to hear me scream. It is beautiful and eerie all at once.

      ‘So peaceful, innit?’ The taxi driver shakes his head in wonder without waiting for an answer to his original question, as though he knows I couldn’t speak even if I wanted to. ‘I used to come up here a lot with the missus, back in the day. Walked for miles, we did.’ He laughs and pats his rounded stomach, accentuated by the belt tethering him to his seat. ‘Long time ago now, though. Don’t think I’d have it in me anymore.’

      I nod and twitch a smile at him, though I say nothing. My mouth is dry, my tongue fat and sluggish, my mind a garbled mess unable to put together a sentence. I take a sip of my water. It’s almost gone.

      ‘Not much further now, love.’

      ‘Really?’ My voice is a rasp, despite the water. I haven’t uttered a word for miles, not since the meter was displaying below a fiver.

      The driver is watching me through the rear-view mirror, his bushy eyebrows raised. ‘Five minutes, I’d say. Ten, tops.’

      My shoulders relax, even as the fleeting thought that he’s toying with me – all part of his sick game – flashes across my mind. I screw the lid back onto my water and slip it into my handbag before taking out my phone to text Emma. I haven’t dared to communicate with the outside world since we entered the deep depths of nowhere, in case the driver knew I was on to him and was raising the alarm.

      I am an idiot, but in my defence, this has been a really weird and extremely stressful day so far.

      ‘You on holiday then?’ Having coaxed one little word from me, the driver is having another stab at small talk and I feel I owe him after thinking the worst of him.

      ‘I wish.’ A holiday would be nice. I haven’t been away since I was little, back when my parents were still together and we spent a couple of weeks in Italy. I remember the heat and the gelato and the feeling that life couldn’t get any better than this. It didn’t. My parents split up shortly afterwards and we never returned to the glory days of that summer holiday.

      ‘Oh?’ The driver is raising his eyebrows at me in the rear-view mirror, and I assume he isn’t enquiring about my desire to jet away to sunnier climes.

      ‘I’m going to Little Heaton for work.’

      ‘I see.’ The driver nods, his eyes back on the road. ‘What kind of work?’

      I’m about to explain that I’m in events management, but that isn’t strictly true anymore. But I can’t tell him I’m in property development either, as I’d feel like a fraud.

      ‘I’m helping out with a house refurbishment.’ This is much closer to the truth of the situation, and luckily the driver doesn’t probe any further. Instead, he regales me with tales of his own home improvements, from DIY disasters to DIY triumphs. He’s in the middle of a story about the dodgy plumbing he discovered beneath his kitchen sink when I spot the first sign that we are indeed on the right track. We’ve wound our way down the hillside and though I have yet to see another human being, there are at least fields of sheep and cows again. And then, nestled in an overgrown bush and only just visible through the foliage, is a hand-painted sign:

       Buy fresh eggs @ Little Heaton Animal Sanctuary

      There’s an arrow pointing ahead and everything. We’re almost there!

      A couple of minutes later, we’ve turned off the tarmacked road and onto a little lane that is barely more than a dirt track. We jiggle and bump over the loose rocks and potholes until we reach a bridge stretching over a canal. I strain to look out over the side as we drive over, the knot in my stomach loosening for the first time since Vanessa landed this gig on me. Little Heaton is beautiful. The water of the canal is sparkling in the sunshine, throwing out shades of green from the trees and hedges lining the towpath. All is still apart from the ripples following a pair of swans as they glide alongside a moored barge.

      We cross the bridge, emerging fully into the village. There is so much green, from the lush, leafy trees, the beautifully presented gardens sitting proudly in front of quaint cottages, and the hills in the distance. We are a world away from the bustling city centre I’m accustomed to.

      I finally spot my first human for many miles; a dog-walker in hunter green wellington boots pulled over worn jeans. He raises his hand in greeting as we pass, pulling tight on the lead to keep his dog away from the tiny lane we’re passing along.

      ‘Now then.’ The driver slows as he peers at the sat nav. ‘Can’t be far from here.’

      We pass an assortment of houses, from squat, crumbly-looking cottages to three-storey newbuilds, until we reach the high street. There’s a small community garden in the centre, facing a terrace of shops. There’s a tanning shop, which jars against its picturesque surroundings, but it makes me think of Sonia, who is probably laughing her socks off at me back at the office. There are more houses, lots of greenery and even a castle in the distance, which makes me do a proper double-take as I catch sight of it. We pass a couple of pubs – which I fully intend to make use of during my stay – then end up back alongside the canal. The car stops and I peer out of the window, my brow creasing with confusion. There are no houses here, just the water and trees.

      ‘Just give me a minute, love.’ The driver is tapping at the screen of his sat nav, tutting and sighing as he jabs harder and harder.

      ‘Are we lost?’ Just when I thought things were looking up. Maybe this isn’t the right place after all.

      ‘Ah, no, nothing like that.’ The driver is still stabbing the screen with his finger. ‘It’s just this stupid thing …’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s sending us that way.’ He points across the canal. I look both ways, looking for another bridge, but there is nothing but the narrow wooden footbridge we’ve parked alongside. ‘We must have taken a wrong turning somewhere.’ He jabs at the screen one last time before he spots another dog-walker heading our way. Winding down the window, he leans right out and waves a hand to catch her attention. It’s as she approaches the car that I realise she isn’t a dog-walker at all. The animal plodding behind her isn’t of the canine variety but of the woolly kind. She’s taking a sheep out for a stroll. What the …?

      ‘We’re looking for Arthur’s Pass, love, but the sat nav’s playing up.’ The driver thrusts a thumb at the malfunctioning equipment. ‘What’s the best way to go?’

      The woman stoops to pet the sheep. She’s only young, early twenties at the most, with long blonde hair plaited to the side. She’s wearing bright red wellies over skinny jeans and a matching parka with a furry hood.

      ‘You’d need to go all the way back to the iron bridge.’ She pulls an apologetic face, as though she’s responsible for the balls up. ‘Arthur’s Pass is on the other side of the canal and we only have the one access across the bridge for vehicles. It’s a bit of a nightmare, actually, but you sort of get used to it.’ She shrugs and pets the sheep again. ‘Are you just dropping off?’ She’s looking at the side of the car, at the taxi’s markings. ‘Because you’d be better off jumping out here and walking the rest of the way.’ She’s peering past the driver now to address me. ‘It’s just over this footbridge and down the lane.’ She points across the canal, towards a cluster of trees. ‘I’m heading that way myself so I can show you.’

      ‘That would be so kind, thank you.’ As much as I appreciate the driver getting me here safely, without turning out to be a bloodthirsty maniac, I don’t fancy driving all the way back through the village. I’m still feeling a bit queasy and desperate for a bit of fresh air.

      I pay the driver, fighting hard not to wince at the number of notes I’m forced to hand over, and grab my holdall from the boot. With

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